


Butt Gun

by CatLovePower



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 08:14:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8616421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: It was bound to happen one day or the other; that gun sticking out of Riggs' jeans was just too tempting.





	

"Concealed holsters are supposed to do that, conceal your weapon. It looks like you’re parading with a gun sticking out of your butt."  
  
"So you admit you look at my butt? I'm flattered, Rog."  
  
"I'm sure Dr. Cahill could explain the deep meaning of that choice. Bottled up feelings or something…"  
  
"I don't take my gun during sessions."  
  
"Because it gets uncomfortable when you sit?"  
  
"In case feelings get out of hand and I decide to end it on the spot,” Riggs corrected with that smile which looked like a grimace.

That was dark, a little too much, and an uncomfortable silence settled in the car.  
  
"I'm just saying, it looks weird..."  
  
"Stop talking about my ass, or at least buy me dinner first."  
  
"I keep feeding you! It's all I'm doing! Without me you'd be skinny as hell."  
  
"So you admit you're trying to fatten me?"  
  
*  
  
"What do you mean, 'the body's gone'? In what universe does that make sense?" Murtaugh was pissed, Riggs could tell by the hand gestures.

To be honest, he was a little disappointed too. There was a small patch of coagulating blood on the cement, obvious signs of struggle, but no victim whatsoever.  
  
"Are we sure it wasn't just a cat fight?" Murtaugh continued in his back.  
  
Riggs had progressed further in the back alley, checking behind dumpsters, trying to guess were an injured man would hide. He heard the two patrol officers who called it in assure Murtaugh that there was still a dead man here ten minutes ago.  Riggs looked up, inspecting the boarded windows of the first floor, trying to see if someone could have pried the planks and hoisted themselves up.

The alley was a dead end, and he overlooked it – rookie mistake. In his defense, he had a lot on his plate, and he wasn't really sleeping much these days. The back wall was low, maybe 8 feet; he should have checked it. When he turned around to go back from where he came, someone jumped him from behind – falling, more than leaping from the wall.  
  
Riggs didn't make a sound and fell face first on the ground. He kicked blindly, trying to connect with the totally-not-dead man behind him. Before he could call out, the other guy tried to bash his head in with something; Riggs pictured his skull cracking open like an egg, as pain exploded inside and out.

*

Despite what those two idiots claimed, there was no body here, which meant they drove halfway across town in rush hour for nothing. They were homicide, not maybe dead people who suddenly disappeared as if nothing happened.

And now they would be late for lunch, and the food truck he had talked about for a week would be long gone. Just thinking about that made Murtaugh simultaneously angry and hungry. The patty, the spices, the loving way the chef made his hamburgers… Murtaugh turned around, looking for Riggs, because he didn’t need his partner wandering off when they were late for lunch.

He froze when he caught sight of him farther in the alley. He was on his knees, looking unsteady, a gun to his head. The guy holding the gun wasn’t looking too good himself; his midsection was covered in blood, and his slashed shirt revealed a deep wound in his abdomen. Murtaugh couldn’t speak for Riggs, but this was not how he wanted to spend the rest of his morning.

One of the police officers drew his weapon, the other one stayed frozen, as if he had seen a ghost. So, this was their “victim”. Murtaugh gestured for them to stay back, and approached with his palms open in front of him, to show that he only wanted to discuss. He wanted to get Riggs back without any more bullet holes, and possibly to punch his assailant. Repeatedly.

The perp saw him and panicked – Murtaugh couldn’t see why, because he was armed and they weren’t. He shook Riggs and pushed his head down with the muzzle of the gun. The lack of reaction on his partner’s part was worrying, more than he cared to admit. Normally, Murtaugh hated when Riggs did his thing and acted crazily and unexpectedly, but right now, he was missing it.

“So you’re not dead after all,” Murtaugh said, quietly. “Maybe we can help.” He winced, because it sounded better in his head.

“They’ll be back. I won’t let them take me,” the guy blabbered, clearly distressed. And why wouldn’t he be, he looked half-dead already.

“Let my partner go, and we’ll talk,” Murtaugh tried.

“No way, you’ll just shoot me in the head or something.”

“I’m not with them.” Never mind who “them” was.

“Liar,” the perp hissed.

Murtaugh was close enough to get a good look at Riggs now, and he looked the worse for wear. There was blood in his hair, above his right ear, and the guy holding the gun – his own gun – had his arm twisted behind his back. That looked painful, Murtaugh thought. And he still hadn’t fought back or added some inane comment about the situation.

And then it hit him. Maybe Riggs wanted this; maybe he had already welcomed death. That was a shitty way to die, he thought, but he said nothing and just gritted his teeth. Don't antagonize an unhinged individual holding a gun to the head of a madman with a death wish.

He could have tried to wake Riggs up – assuming it was a fugue state and not a concussion – but he didn’t want to rush things. Maybe the guy would just pass out from blood loss and make their day; after all, he had been reported dead half an hour ago.

*

His arm wasn't broken, but it wasn't far off. He could feel warm blood on his scalp, over his ear. The world looked fuzzy and the sounds garbled. Murtaugh was talking, and he could see the two uniforms getting antsy in the back. Murtaugh sounded... concerned? Okay, their murder victim was currently holding his gun to his head and twisting his arm more than necessary, but that was no reason to fret.

Screaming. His gun was rammed into his skull once more, and then he had enough. It wasn't the place nor the time, not next to a dumpster before lunch, Murtaugh would lose his appetite. So instead of staying still and trying to keep the weight off his arm, he leaned forward, welcoming the way the bones of his forearm grinded together. The madman was surprised, but the gun didn't waver. Riggs pulled even more, and his arm snapped. The gunman released him as if he had been burned.

So Riggs let himself fall forward, going boneless on the ground and trusting his partner to sort this mess out. Two gunshots rang, precise and controlled. More shouting, from the uniforms, from the guy with two new holes in his already mangled body. Maybe some of it came from him, he wasn’t really sure.

And then Murtaugh’s hands were on his face, hovering just above his arm, physically making sure that he was okay – he wasn’t, but he laughed that broken laugh of his anyway. The uniforms gave him strange looks; then moved swiftly to secure his gun and handcuff their formerly deceased suspect.

*

‘Typical Riggs’, Murtaugh thought, wincing when he heard the bone snap. He had always thought it was a figure of speech, turned out he was wrong. His training did the rest, and he put two bullets in the right shoulder of the gunman, trying not to think about Riggs, unmoving on the ground.

Then, once he was sure the perp was down, he assessed Riggs’ condition – his arm was already turning an awful shade of blue and he didn’t dare touch it, and his hair was caked with drying blood, no longer bleeding. The laughter was the worst, because it was frightening and comforting at the same time.

Riggs sat down, visibly too out of it to stand, and when his bleary eyes found Murtaugh’s face, he grunted, “I’m pissed, Rog.”

“I know, buddy,” Murtaugh said, with some awkward patting on his good shoulder.

*

“So,” Murtaugh began, with the ghost of a smile on his lips, “are you sure you’re going to keep tucking your gun in your pants?”

They were at the Murtaughs’, and Riggs looked positively sick. He sat on the edge of the sofa, as if he was about to bolt out of the door at any moment – and Murtaugh wouldn’t put it past him.

“It’s not what you really want to talk about,” Riggs said, without raising his head. They had to shave some of his hair on the side of his head to stitch him up, and he looked even more gruff than usual. That wasn’t what he was talking about either.

Murtaugh scooted over and put his hand on Riggs’ back, wincing internally as he twitched, as if he wanted to run away from others’ concern for him.

‘I care about you’, is what Murtaugh should have said. Instead, he whispered, “I don’t understand why you fought back.” It wasn’t nice, but it was true, and troubling; Riggs was so adamant he wanted to die, and when he had a perfect opportunity, he chose to wreck his arm and survive, traumatizing two patrol officers on the same occasion.

“It would have ruined your day,” Riggs said, in a sheepish voice, so unlike himself. If he was totally honest, he had been shocked to realize he mattered to people around him, after living like a hermit for so long. And he had thought, in a confused, concussed moment, that it would have been interesting to explore these feelings some more, before going back to Miranda’s arms.

“And there is nothing wrong with my holster,” he added, just to rile Roger up.


End file.
